


Ask for Sin

by mpb



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 07:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17504618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mpb/pseuds/mpb
Summary: The girl, Sansa Stark, died long ago.The MI6 Special Agent, Sandor Clegane, just can’t seem to let her go.The assassin, Stoneheart, doesn’t necessarily want him to.





	1. Blood Red Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> ** PLEASE READ **
> 
> There will be mentions of sexual assault in a couple chapters - its not a super prevalent theme throughout the story, but it is an aspect of Stoneheart’s past and will need to be explored. I’ll post this warning: 
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT** 
> 
> In the notes before the chapter if it is warranted. I’ll also start that particular scene with ** and close it with ** so you can just skip that section. Please be aware of your own sensibilities if you’re choosing to read those sections. 
> 
> That all being said - I hope you like my latest story. This idea came to me today and I couldn’t stop thinking about it! 
> 
> THERE IS A **TRIGGER WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT** IN THIS CHAPTER.

The red-head two tables to the left looked entirely too much like a young Sansa Stark. She was no older than seven, with a wide smile, and two pig tails bouncing atop her head with each giggle her dark-haired father pulled from her. She scowled only once throughout the entire family dinner, and not because she had to eat her vegetables - she was more than happy to do that, as any well behaved child should, this young girl scowled at her older brother, whose red, curly mop matched his sisters, just as his bright blue eyes, and sunny disposition did.

The joy turned something in her stomach. Something that resembled grief. Something she pushed down.

 _Porcelain_.

 _Ivory_.

 _Steel_.

The dark ringlets cascading down her back did little to make her entirely anonymous, but they served far better than her red locks ever had. She had been dark-haired as long as she could remember, but sometimes, in the dark recesses of the night, when she had collapsed boneless onto her vanity chair, and stared hard at her reflection, her mind - no, not her mind - pulled up the visage of another dark-haired girl from so long ago. She would think on how she might have grown into her features, how she might have been a stunning beauty. She thought of a man with dark hair, horrific burns, and how, at 13, she had thought he could protect her from the violence of the world.

Then she would lock those thoughts away, wash the paint from her face, and fall into her plush bed piled high with silken pillows and soft throws.

She swirled her gin and tonic idly, tracing her finger along the rim of the glass as she did. She knew she was beautiful, stunning, even. It had posed a significant problem throughout her life - it drew too much attention, and attention, she had learned, was something she could not afford in this life.So, the darkened recesses of bars and lounges, restaurants and shopping malls, streets and hallways became her home. She had quickly and quietly folded herself into the shadows and basked in the anonymity they provided that the light never would, never could. Her perfectly manicured fingers tapped against the polished wood of the table top - 15 minutes late.

 _Petyr_ _was_ _never_ _this_ _late_ , she thought, her eyes rolling sky-ward as she threw back the remainder of her drink, _but_ , she supposed, _they’ll_ _learn_. 

From the corner of her eye she saw four men enter the restaurant. They were... substantial, to say the least, but the man they circled was not. Short, pudgy, and balding were not the only words one might use to describe the Spider - though they were likely the most polite. He had risen to power through knowledge, though a startling level of violence didn’t hurt, and had recently began to engage her particular talents to corner the market.

She didn’t care about any of it. He paid her well for her work but she had no loyalty to the Spider, and he had none for her. Even if she did wish to entertain the idea of loyalty, she was under no illusions that the Spider would never believe it - he knew too much and, even if he did believe it, after what she had just done to the man who raised her, she wasn’t entirely sure how much her word was worth.

He settled himself in the seat across from her, his immaculate suit was out of place in this restaurant, especially when contrasted with her dark sweater and ripped skinny jeans.

“Hello, my dear. I trust you are well?” His voice was silken, the slight accent gave the illusion of kindness, but she knew exactly what this was.

“I am. As are the projections for next quarter.” One immaculate brow rose a fraction of an inch to accompany the slight tilt of her head.

“Oh, wonderful! You are an excellent addition, I must say. You are certainly more punctual than the man who previously held your position.” His eyes, dark and completely devoid of the lust she often saw dancing in men’s eyes, stared deep into her own. She, of course, did not back down. Her stare was just as intense, perhaps even more so, for she knew her eyes were completely devoid of the life that sparked in everyone’s. A shield, one she had cultivated since she was 12, it was impenetrable and terrifying to behold.

The Spider broke eye contact first and a slow smile pulled at her lips. It wasn’t the bright, joyful smile the little girl had, rather, it was a calculated smile, carefully honed and cultivated to prompt a visceral reaction in the individual she was smiling at. It was a wolf’s smile, all sharp teeth and clear, murderous intention. More than one poor soul had pissed their pants upon seeing her sparkling white teeth glinting at them through the darkness. It gave her a sick sense of satisfaction to feel so powerful.

A thick envelope slid across the table and her fingers snatched it up, gripping it tightly and mentally calculating the amount inside.

“I have another job for you...” the Spider trailed off, sliding a small photograph across the table to her. Her eyes slid over the visage of a man she knew intimately and a swell of primal rage grew in her chest. She pulled the photo closer. His hair was longer than it had been when she had run, but the mad glint was still in his eye - it was clear, even in a photo. Her eyes twinkled in delight.

“When?”

“Two days.” The Spider sipped a rum and coke, then shuddered. He never did well with liquor, she had learned.

“Method?” Her eyebrow rose, the silent question was obvious.

“Slow.”

A wicked grin pulled at the corners of her mouth and she was sure there was pure delight in her eyes. The Spider raised his glass with a secret smile at her, his old friend’s daughter.

If his heart twinged a bit in grief as she watched her saunter from the restaurant, her envelope of money and photograph tucked away in her messenger bag, well... who would know but he?

_____________________________________________________________________________________

MI6 Special Agent Sandor Clegane loved his job, but he hated that the little bird didn’t seem to take any days off. He had been hunting her for 10 years, and she evaded him at every turn. It was infuriating. He couldn’t fault her, not really, not when he knew her history so intimately, but the level of violence he witnessed here - this wasn’t her calling card.

 _What_ _happened_ _to_ _her_?

Ramsay Bolton had died screaming, there was no doubt about that. Sandor had no doubt that he deserved it, but the assassination of a murdering, raping, international criminal psychopath was still an assassination, and still required Sandor Clegane’s unique talents.

He stepped into the scene, which was flooded with MI6 forensic operatives, and walked through her routine. She would have entered the scene under the cover of darkness, Bolton’s propensity for violence would have demanded it, and she wasn’t stupid.

She might have been the most brilliant person he had ever encountered.

**

She had drugged him, with what, Sandor couldn’t say, but there was a needle mark in between his toes even though Bolton was tied to the bed. He was face-down, arse poised high in the air with rope wrapping tightly around his upper thighs and waist to keep it there, and there was a poker shoved deep into his ass. That had been the killing blow, though there were many before it, and, judging by the chair pulled close to the edge of the bed where the face was, she had sat there for hours and watched the Bastard of Bolton bleed out in his flat.

**

No, this wasn’t the little bird’s MO. She was a killer, to be sure, and, when the job required violence, she could bear down upon her target like a wolf-bitch, but she was never this violent. In all the time Sandor had been hunting her, he had never encountered something like this. She had a code. No children and no sexual violence or assault of any kind. So what made her change that?

“Clegane!” Bronn Blackwater, Sandor’s partner, clapped his shoulder and surveyed the mess that was Ramsay Bolton. “Fucking hell, mate. Who finally got the bastard?”Bronn took several steps forward, bending at the waist to survey the damage done to Bolton’s upper half - jagged slashed littered his back, arms, and face. Sandor was sure that the front of his body would boast the same.

“Stoneheart.” His voice was low, guttural, as he thought on what, exactly, could prompt this level of violence from her. She had been a sweet, quiet girl when he had last seen her.

Bronn whirled, brows raised in shock,“No fucking shit?! This doesn’t look like her handy-work?”

Sandor pushed a hand through his hair, tugging softly at the roots, and growling his frustration softly, “I know... but...”

There, on the bed next to Bolton’s head, was a napkin stained red with the impression of a kiss. It was her calling card, of sorts. Each of her victims were left with a final blood red kiss upon their cheek. It puzzled the other operatives, why an assassin as talented as this would risk identification, but Sandor knew - he remembered a time when a young, red headed girl had looked up at him with tears and accusations in her eyes, and had placed a single, blood red kiss upon his cheek in farewell.

Her calling card had only started when Sandor had been promoted to Special Agent and given the department in charge of chasing her down. She was taunting him. The little bird had shed her feathers and grown into her fur and teeth, it seemed.

“Damn, she deviated though. This level of violence is unprecedented with her... and the kiss on the napkin? I wouldn’t want to kiss this dirty bastard, either, mind.” Bronn’s voice broke through Sandor’s hazy memories of bright blue eyes and broken promises.

“He’s into some dark shit. I want to know what.” Sandor pondered how she might have become connected to such a heinous person. Then he stopped, locking those thoughts away behind walls of adamant, and steel, and regret.

“Yeah, well, while we’re waiting on that lets go get some breakfast. I was out late with Margie and I need some coffee if I’m gonna be at the office with your ugly mug all day.” Bronn’s voice clearly emulated his feelings on the little bird’s work habits.

“Margie none too impressed?” Sandor felt a chuckle rise from deep in his stomach as he turned to follow his partner from the flat.

“Jesus, no. Should have heard her this morning while I was pouring myself into this damn suit, shrieking like a banshee.” Bronn’s words were irritated, but the tone was full of love. Sandor could see in his friend’s eyes, how they stared off into space, just how deeply he loved his girlfriend of three years. 

“She’s scared for you. Can’t blame her for that.” Sandor nodded his head to Bronn’s stomach which, just a year ago, had been bleeding profusely onto the pavement curtesy of a Russian spy who was making a break for it after MI6 cornered him.

Bronn chuckled, lightly rubbing the spot where the skin was raised and angry looking. “Yeah, well, we’ve all got our scars, don’t we?”

Sandor glared at his friend out of the corner of his eye as they stepped from the building onto the bustling of King Street. Sandor was a large man, intimidating and muscular. His hair was dark and fell in thick waves and his beard grew in thick, though he kept it quite short. His profile was, based on the advances of women, quite attractive - a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and grey eyes - but the left side of his face...

Scars mottled the skin and from his hairline all the way down over his cheek and lips until they dipped below the collar of his shirt and stretched along his neck, shoulder, and upper chest. 

He snarled softly at his friend, a quick and biting retort on his lips, but flailed as a body collided with his shoulder. His grunt was loud and irritation immediately coloured his features. He felt himself whirl towards the offending figure before his mind had instructed him to do so, but was merely greeted with the back of a tall woman with long, dark hair. His mouth opened to yell an offending remark down the street but hung open in shock when she cast a glance over her shoulder and winked at him, a secret smirk playing on her blood red lips.

 _Blue_ eyes.

Eyes like the sea.

Eyes like the sky.

Tully blue eyes.

Sansa Stark.

Little bird.

 _Stoneheart_.


	2. Chapter 2

**January** **23** , **2004**

Sansa Stark twirled about the room, the skirts of her pretty new dress splaying wide as she danced with imaginary figures, stopping and bowing periodically to signal a new suitor had taken her in his arms. The living room of her family’s home was empty, as of yet, and the beautiful hardwood floors made the perfect ballroom, if you asked her. 

The burly men her father’s friend, Robert Baratheon, had hired to assist the Starks in their move south trickled in and out of the room, their eyes lingering on the rise and fall of her skirt as she swung herself around the room with ease. The men, according to her mother, would be carrying boxes inside and leaving them piled high in the centre of whichever room they belonged in - she wanted to take advantage of this certifiable dance floor while she had the chance.

 _Though_ , she supposed, _with_ _Arya_ _roaming_ _the_ _house_ _it’s_ _quite_ _lucky_ _I’ve_ _gone_ _this_ _long_ _without_ _her_ _ruining_ _it_.

Sansa made one final turn, opening her eyes as she did, and looked upon the figure of one of the movers. He was massive, the wide doorframe looked as though it was several inches too small to accommodate him. Arms with thick chords of muscle carried three boxes and his shoes were caked in mud, causing Sansa to wrinkle her nose. He strode forward, into the centre of the room, and Sansa felt her heart deflate at the prospect of losing her dancing room. The boxes, judging by the crash they made when the man dropped them in the middle of the floor with little ceremony or care, were quite heavy, and Sansa marvelled at the strength of this man. But his face, oh, his face!

She was gawking, she knew. Her mouth hanging open, and eyes going wide in shock, then fear, as he looked down at her through the long strands of black hair. _He_ _would_ _have_ _been_ _handsome_ , she thought, _but_ _for_ _those_ _scars_. 

The entirety of one side of his face was a mess of twisted, angry scars. The skin pulled taut in some places, and sagged in others. It was red and weeping, it was dry and cracked. One side of his face was inexplicable to the beautiful young girl who had never seen something so ugly.

He sneered down at her, _a_ _pretty_ _little_ _bird_ _fluttering_ _her_ _wings_ , he thought. He was not surprised, though, to see the fear dancing in her blue eyes, there was always fear when people looked upon him.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

 **Present** **Date**

One might think that the MI6 headquarters would be beautiful, state of the art facilities, with massive glass windows, and a clean-cut, modern aesthetic. Those who thought that would be incorrect. Rather, the office Sandor currently occupied was built underneath the Old Bailey, connected to the other sections of the Headquarters via a series of tunnels running underneath London. It was dark, and dingy, and had the general feel of somewhere one might hatch an evil plot. His computer was from the dark ages, and they still used fax machines, landlines, and dial-up internet. The entire system was maddening to deal with, which posed a significant problem for Sandor, since, as head of the department, he had to deal with it frequently.

He was sneering violently at the computer screen, a sandwich shoved unceremoniously in his mouth, and grease clinging to his fingertips when Bronn sauntered in, and slapped a thick file down on his already cluttered desk. The file had “Classified” stamped across the front in giant, thick block letters, and, judging by the look on Bronn’s face, Sandor knew what was inside it.

It was the report he had written 15 years ago. He knew the details forward and backward, could recite the entire thing in his sleep, and it offered nothing he didn’t already know. 

“What’s this, then?” Sandor slurped his coffee noisily, peering up at Bronn through thick lashes.

”Sansa Stark - you didn’t tell me everything.” Bronn settled himself in the hard-backed chair on the other side of the desk. His left ankle settled on his right knee, and he slouched into the chair, giving off the perfect impression of someone who wasn’t righteously angry at being left out of the loop.

”Not much to tell” Sandor mumbled, turning back to the screen.

”Bullshit.” Bronn’s voice cracked like a whip “She was a kid, man. What the hell were you thinking?” 

Sandor felt his temper flare, and he swore he could still feel the heat of the Stark family home crumbling to cinders. “I was thinking of getting her out of there and keeping her safe.” 

Bronn rose one eyebrow, disbelief colouring his features, as he griped “well you did a piss poor job of that. You just sent her off? No protection? No one followed up?”

Sandor hung his head and didn’t say anything. It was one of the greatest regrets of his life. His fingers danced across the edges of the report, where the last mention of Sansa Stark could be found. He fipped the file open and, though the details of her face were seared into his brain, he couldn’t stop staring at the photograph that accompanied the file. Her birthday was in December, did she still celebrate it? She would turn 28 this year and her kill list, by his account, was nearly twelve times that number. She had only been operating for the last 12 years - averaging about 28 kills a year since she was 16.

“I think she was taken by Petyr Baelish.” 

Sandor lifted his eyes to Bronn, “Who?”

”Baelish.” Another file fell on top of Sansa’s. “High profile crime-boss. Was apparently in good with the mother before she married into the Starks. According to my sources he hasn’t been seen or heard from in months, but he ran a pretty... elite boarding school for many years.”

”Elite?”

”Melisandre and Dany Targaryen are graduates.”

Sandor whistled. Two of the biggest, most notorious assassians on their list. It couldn’t be a coincidence. “You think she was trained there?” Bronn nodded. 

There were three years, 1095 days, during which Sandor had no idea where she had been or what had happened to her. Sansa Stark had been released from MI6’s protection in early 2005 to the care of her uncle, Brynden Tully, but had never made it to him, it seemed. She had fallen through the cracks after the case concluded and she was no longer of use to MI6. He hadn’t known. He hadn’t looked for her.

What did they do to her? How did she become... this?

He looked over the photos from today’s scene, splayed out across his desk in a haphazard fashion. The records of her previous kills demonstrated the meticulous care she took with her victims. She wasn’t sloppy, ever. She wasn’t unnecessarily violent, ever. He didn’t think she truly enjoyed what she did - not the way most international assassins did. This was a job to her, simple, she took no joy in it.

”Where does Bolton fit in?” 

 _Killing_ _is_ _the_ _simplest_ _joy_ _there_ _is,_ _little_ _bird_.

He had been lying, he thought as he ran his fingers over his face. It was devastating and it took pieces of you. When had she figured that out? Did she? Or did she think that he enjoyed torturing and killing under the MI6 flag of protection?

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Alayne stepped over the brightly painted threshold and breathed deeply. The smell of fresh baked bread, cookies, and cakes brought a genuine smile to her lips. The shop was quaint, small, and somewhat cramped, what will all the mix-matched chairs and tables. The heat in the bakery was stifling, even for January in Paris, as the ovens burned hot and the flames dancing in enormous brick fireplace in the back danced. Alayne unwound her heavy wool scarf - green, and poorly made, as she herself had decided to take up a hobby during a particularly slow work month - from her neck and undid the top three buttons of her long, military-style jacket. She stomped her boots roughly on the mat just inside the front door, shaking the snow and ice from the surface, before she turned to the long count that ran the length of the left side of the room.

“Bonjour, Alayne!” Clarice LeBlanc, the elderly owner of the tiny bakery, beamed when the dark haired girl entered her store. Alayne had moved to the aging area nearly 10 years before, fresh faced and bright eyed, and had fallen in love with the bakery immediately. Clarice, for her part, had loved the girl with the bright blue eyes and hair too dark to be her natural shade just as quickly. She had a sadness about her, one that was trampled down, and stuffed away, until only the bright, delightful emotions that made people comfortable remained. Sometimes, in the dark recesses of the night - the few hours between when she retired to her twin bed in the apartment above her quaint little bakery, and when she would rise and begin baking the morning breads and cakes - Clarice would lie awake and think on what that poor child had been through that forced her to shut away her emotions so tightly.

Clarice had experience with that particular habit, also born out of necessity, so she recognized it plain as day in another. The sequence of numbers tattooed on her arm in faded ink, wrinkled against the thin skin there threw her back to a time when she had been forced to shove the memories of her family deep into the furthest corners of her mind and keep them there.

“Salut!” Alayne always had a soft, genuine smile for Clarice. She thought Clarice was sweet, and caring, though perhaps a bit too trusting. She always had an extra lemon cake for Alayne, and it was a simple joy that the dark-haired woman clung to fiercely. She remembered the same flavours, the sugar, the bite of lemon, and the crunch of the base, fondly, and always thought of a tall red-headed woman singing off-key Frank Sinatra songs in a tiny kitchen when she bit into the tasty dessert.

The bag, her regular order, plopped down on the counter-top. When she went to grab it, sliding the bills over the polished surface, Clarice’s hand gripped her own in an alarming show of strength.

“You are well, yes?” Clarice had lived in Paris for so long, but the slight German lilt in her voice had never truly left her. Alayne surveyed her, bringing a soft smile to her lips, and willing her eyes to display appreciation for the woman’s care - people trust you more when your eyes convey the emotions, Petyr’s voice whispered in her mind. She returned the elderly woman’s grip, gently shaking the hand before leaning forward and kissing the papery skin.

“I am well, Clarice. Thank you, for everything you do for me.” The older woman’s eyes were dark brown, and soft as they stared at her, drinking in her almost-sincere expression.

“Go on, child. Its too beautiful a day for you to stay cooped up in here with me. Go find yourself a handsome man to bunk down with for the night.” Clarice sent Alayne a saucy smile and a wink, taking an enormous tray of eclairs, and backing herself through the swinging door and into the kitchen beyond. Alayne dug into the bag, twirling on her toes, and popped a lemon cake in her mouth. She sashayed from the shop, her head bobbing to a tune inside her brain as she meandered her way down the street, past the tiny Italian restaurant she frequented, and into the alley that led to her flat.

It was a beautiful, spacious flat with hardwood floors throughout, massive windows, two balconies, and a deep claw-foot tub perfect for soaking after long trips. Most importantly, it was on the top floor and had access to the roof. From there is was a quick run-and-jump from building to building until she reached her second flat in the city, a few blocks away in a much less desirable area. That one was perfect for storing go-bags, money, food, anything she might need if she needed to lay low.

Ramsay Bolton. She smirked to herself as she thought back to her job three days previous. It had been almost too easy to break into his disgusting flat in London. He was already passed out, naked, in his own vomit. She had been watching him for most of the week, relearning his habits, where he frequented, what he ate, when he slept, where he slept. She almost moved the timing up by three days when she had seen him eyeing a young girl, too young to be in the club Ramsay occupied, but she restrained herself. There could be no mistakes. 

So, she had waited, and waited, and waited. When she had finally broken in and stuck that needle between his toes, well, she couldn’t remember a kill that had tasted so sweet. He had died in pain, but unable to scream. He could do nothing. Helpless.

Like she had been.

 _No_.

She wouldn’t think on that. Couldn’t. Those things happened to Sansa Stark and she was not Sansa Stark.

She unlocked her apartment, throwing her keys into the tiny dish she kept on the table by the door, and toed off her heeled boots. Alayne looked at herself in the mirror hanging above the table. It was a massive iron-framed mirror, the one thing she had been able to find in the ruins of the Stark family home. She skin looked dull. Her hair was lank. Her eyes looked dead.

 _When_ _had_ _she_ _stopped_ _feeling_ _alive_? _Had_ _she_ _always_ _been_ _this_ _cold_? 

 _No_ , a traitorous voice whispered to her, _you_ _weren’t_.

She thought of a time when she, _no_ , Sansa Stark, had pressed her lips to the scarred cheek of a man she might have loved. She had only been thirteen at the time, he was twenty-three and only thought of her as a child in need of his protection, but she might have loved him more than anything.

Until he sent her away to live with an uncle or cousin or something. Petyr had taken her and Sansa Stark died. That was that. End of story.

 _Then_ _why_ , she thought, _did_ _you_ _wait_ _around_ _after_ _the_ _job_? _Why_ _let_ _him_ _see_ _you_? _Let_ _him_ _chase_ _you_ _as_ _he_ _did_?

She had been foolish. The calling card, especially, was foolish, and had earned her more beatings than she had any desire to count. But she had waited hours, hours, at the cafe across from Ramsay Bolton’s flat. Her coffee had been filled five times by the time he had arrived. His suits hugged him better, his beard was thicker, and his rage roiled beneath the surface - no longer etching its mark on his face. God, he looked good.

He had gone inside, and she had waited some more, and, when he came back out with his partner in tow, she couldn’t help herself. Bumping into him was a calculated decision. She wanted him to know how close he was, wanted him to know his little bird was a bird no more - she had grown fangs, and claws, and was more wolf than bird.

He had given chase, like a hound on a scent, but she was quicker, her instincts honed better than his, and her desire to escape had, for now, surpassed his desire to catch her. But for how long?

She almost didn’t catch it, the subtle shift in the air that told her someone was in her flat, but she had been trained too well, too throughly, to miss the tang of male cologne on her tongue as she turned from the mirror. A knife was silently drawn from her waistband, thin and long - like a needle -, as she made her way deeper into the flat. When she peered around the corner into the living room she saw him sat on her couch as though he owned it, owned her. The Spider.

”I don’t make a habit of taking my work home with me.” She spoke Cooley, leaning against the exposed beam, and twirling her blade idily between her fingers. “Did you think I’d made an exception for you?”

His smile was cat-like as he opened his arms in a welcoming gesture, “My dear! I merely wished to ensure your safe return and deliver your payment in person.” 

Alayne surveyed him carefully, her face a cold mask of indifference. "I don’t give a good goddamn why you’re here Varys. What I care about is my money.”  He tossed a large envelope to her, which she retrieved, turning her back to him to meander to her kitchen. “Good. Now get the fuck out of my house.” 

“Now, Sansa, dear. Don’t be like that.”

The knife left her fingers and embedded itself in the wall next to Varys’ head in a split second, Alayne was left standing, her posture relaxed, with a snarl on her lips. “Thats not my name, Spider. You may pay me, but you’ll do well to remember your curtsies.”

Varys surveyed her and rose slowly, “You’re right, of course, my dear. What was it Ms. Stark used to say to a ferocious gentleman in the Lannister’s employ? Curtesy is a lady’s armour?”

His words were heavy with a huddle threat, and she felt herself snarl in challenge as he strode from her home.

_Sansa_ _Stark_ _died_ a _long_ _time_ _ago_ , she reminded herself, _don’t_ _bring_ _up_ _old_ _wounds_.

And, if that night Alayne perused Sandor Clegane’s social media for any traces of how he had changed these last 15 years, she’d die before she admitted it.


End file.
